


Of Firsts and Lasts

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Introspection, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: He recalls the sting of the bullets he took for so many people over the years, knows the ring of being too close to a blast, of the choking sensation of braving a fire to pull a baby from the eighth floor of a burning building. He knows how fear gastastes, recalls the sensation of that sort of terror straight down to his bones, knows his own fears with an intimacy that most people would never survive encountering.





	Of Firsts and Lasts

**Author's Note:**

> For #timdrakeweek July 12 - Day 1: Firsts / Lasts  
> Sort of took some inspiration from Batman Beyond Tim, though his backstory of the lasts is a bit different.  
> Song[s]: "Losin Control" by Russ  
>  _Beta: kate1zena_
> 
> Rereading this I feel like I should have warned you all about this being a tear jerker. So yeah, here's the warning.

He can still remember the first fight as if it were yesterday: the breeze ruffling his hair, the flutter of his cape in Gotham's wind as he made the leap from one building to the next. 

If he closes his eyes, he can still _smell_ Gotham's poignant scent. The fish market on the corner of twelfth and Copper, the rotting garbage in the bins of every alleyway, the freshly cut grass of the park and the sweet undertones of the honeysuckle bushes planted along the edges. 

If he tries harder, he can remember the faintest remnants of Bruce's aftershave, the hint of it beneath the _new_ smell of armor and leather, the stink of gunpowder and blood forever remaining within their costumes. 

His fingers twitch in his lap, the memory of grapple line in his hands, the feeling of the strongest gloves he's ever worn. There's the hint in his muscles of what it once felt like to throw a Birdarang, what it felt like the first time he was forced to use Bruce's Batarang instead. He remembers the sting of catching a sword between his palms, remembers his willingness to lose both of his thumbs rather than his life. 

He recalls the sting of the bullets he took for so many people over the years, knows the ring of being too close to a blast, of the choking sensation of braving a fire to pull a baby from the eighth floor of a burning building. He knows how fear gas _tastes_ , recalls the sensation of that sort of terror straight down to his bones, knows his own fears with an intimacy that most people would never survive encountering. 

He knows what it means to sacrifice and what it means to have someone give up everything _for him_. He remembers what teamwork truly is, understands the passion that comes with being willing to _die_ for someone else. 

If he lets his mind roll with it, he can recall the very first time he ever cried on the job. He remembers the agony of that moment with startling clarity; his chest aches with it if he lets himself linger on it. He remembers the blood staining his fingers and the boil of nausea in his gut from it.

He knows love and he knows loss. He knows the pain that cuts deeper than any physical wound ever could and he knows the truth of psychological damage in a way he wishes he didn't.

When he pulls himself from it, he remembers the good parts, too. The thankfulness of a child having been rescued from certain death. The sobs of a teenage boy he plucked from the grasp of Gotham's worst. He remembers the clinging hugs and the whispered thank yous. 

With that, he recalls the smiles, the brilliant light in each of their eyes as they swung high above Gotham's nights. He remembers the immense joy of that first instant in the air, right before the line catches and there's free fall. He knows, too, what that sated within him and he's forever thankful to have had that in his life.

He remembers the first time Bruce ever hugged him close, recalls the protection of his embrace in the worst moments of his life. His mind provides him those moments between the others. Between the feeling of the first pain of _torture_ and the first pain of _loss_. 

Even now, with his hands brushing over his uniform - a relic of a world so long gone that he could mourn it if only given a chance to do so - he knows the firsts just as intimately as he recalls the lasts. 

He remembers the last time he ever swung between the city's buildings: the taut pull of the line, the wind beneath his cape, the scent of ozone predicting the pull of rain into Gotham's night. 

The feeling in the pit of his stomach is perhaps the most startlingly clear memory. The knowledge that he should have _known_ something was going to go wrong that night.

He remembers the fading joy of flying next to Bruce again for the first time in years. The pleasure of having Dick gracing his other side, Damian somewhere behind them. And he remembers the last time his feet touched the ground in those boots.

He can recall the crunch of gravel under his feet, the click of a round being chambered, and he remembers the breath that lodged in his throat as another sort of fear blossomed in his chest.

If he thinks too long on it, too _hard_ about the lasts, he comes to realize that it's the firsts he likes best. 

He prefers the _hope_ born in those moments, no matter the state of his mind or the position of the city, it's those moments that leave him with a longing to his very core. The desire to once again fly above the city, to reach for the sky. 

He longs for the _victory_ of those nights once again.

Even as his fingers shake with age, even with his eyesight fading into a haze, he wishes there could be _one more last_. One to replace the other.

His costume falls back into the box and he accepts the knowledge of what is to come. There will be one more _last_ in his life. One more moment that can never be recalled and before he finds that, he will make another memory. 

Another night high above Gotham. Another moment to capture in his mind before his years claim him. Before he joins the others in what he can only hope is a series of brand new _firsts_.

One last time, Tim Drake will breathe Gotham's air, will claim her night as his own. One more time, he will be _everything he ever needed to be_.


End file.
